Return to Me
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: When Sherlock returns after three long years, he expects an eventful reunion. What he doesn't expect is a criminal sending John into a coma. As Sherlock waits for him to wake up, he begins to realize just how important the doctor is to him. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock's POV**

* * *

The streets of London were bursting with people Christmas shopping, yet Sherlock Holmes felt as though he was completely alone. There weren't any major differences in the city he used to reside in; the crowds consisted of urgent strangers and there were a few different shops and vendors here and there, though he was happy to see that Angelo's was still in business.

He didn't hear the thousands of conversations; he didn't smell the horrid mixtures of perfume and body odor; he didn't feel the light flirtatious brushes and urgent bumps of the people passing by.

Sherlock just stood and took in the strangely unfamiliar sight of London.

He couldn't pinpoint what was different about the city. There wasn't anything missing that would give him such a horridly strong feeling that he didn't belong. There wasn't anything sentimental about it, there _couldn't _be anything sentimental about it; all of the discomfort merely stemmed from the foreign-ness of the city.

A sleek black car pulled up on his side of the street, and Sherlock sighed. Couldn't he spend five minutes in London without being pestered?

Yanking the door open, Sherlock slid in beside Anthea who was, much to his shock, twiddling on her phone (playing Words With Friends with Mycroft as usual).

The detective didn't look at her for the rest of the trip, choosing instead to stare out the window.

They drove by Baker Street, and Sherlock was rewarded with a glimpse of a certain doctor, limping into 221B with a sack of groceries.

"Don't even think about it." Anthea warned, not looking up from her game.

Sherlock inwardly slumped, though he didn't allow himself to show any signs of hearing her words.

It was going to be a long drive.

* * *

Two hours later, they finally arrived at Sherlock's childhood home in the country, where Mycroft was waiting. Anthea moved to walk in front of him, but Sherlock brushed past her. He didn't need to be led around in his own house.

It wasn't hard to find Mycroft; he was in the library, lounging comfortably in a large chair beside a bookshelf that went from floor to ceiling. The desk in front of him was overflowing with papers and photographs.

"Long time no see, dear brother." Sherlock greeted, plopping into a chair across from Mycroft.

"I see your manners haven't improved during your absence," Mycroft sniffed.

"I was too busy to worry about pointless niceties, as you well know."

"Yes, well, now that that is out of the way, I suggest you start."

"I have more important things to worry about," Sherlock spat.

"Ah yes," Mycroft smiled. "The doctor."

"Military doctor"

"Ex-military doctor."

"But a military doctor nonetheless."

"Why are you avoiding his name? Don't tell me you've forgotten it."

"I haven't." _How could I? _

"Of course," Mycroft smirked. "But that isn't what troubles you."

Sherlock was silent, though he never looked away from his brother.

Instead of spouting a snide remark from his lips, Mycroft leaned forward, quiet as well, as he pushed a file toward Sherlock.

"It has been a long three years for him too. He didn't take your suicide very well. Would you like to read those files?"

The detective hesitated. He wanted more than anything to read the documents and see every detail of John's life during the absence, but it felt like a violation of the worst sort. It was the same reason why he never read the doctor's military files; it was a topic neither of them discussed. Besides, after all he had done, did Sherlock really deserve to read about the doctor's personal life?

"No."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up, and Sherlock wanted to laugh at the ridiculous sight. He knew the doctor would've.

"Well," Mycroft began, his eyebrows sinking to their normal position. "John took up some... interesting habits while you were away."

"What did John do?" Sherlock loathed the emotion that drenched his tone, but his brother acted like nothing happened.

"He began cutting himself during the first year, but I put a stop to that. I was, however, unable to make him quit smoking."

"What did he say?"

"He ignored me."

If the situation were different, Sherlock would've smiled at John's stubbornness.

"He still mourns you, that much is obvious. He's shut everyone out but Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He actually started helping out at the crime scenes; he works for Lestrade now."

"He's not working at the hospital anymore?"

"He quit. Apparently he couldn't stand it there anymore. He's currently working on a case with the D.I.," Mycroft handed Sherlock a relatively light folder.

Sherlock scanned it over before snapping it shut and handing it back. "Child's play."

"Indeed."

The detective stood and walked to the door. He didn't say a word as he left the house and entered the car.

* * *

The sun was beginning to rise as Sherlock flounced up to the relatively nice door and knocked, rather loudly, three times before stepping back.

He could hear grumbling as footsteps grew louder and louder until locks were being fiddled with and the door swung open.

Lestrade blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes (recently divorced, stressed (about the case), healthy, dating a new girl (Molly?-

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by the D.I.'s fist slamming into his face before grabbing the detective's scarf and yanking him into the flat. Lestrade slammed the door and turned to Sherlock.

"You better have a damn good reason for this Sherlock," Lestrade hissed, his barely-restrained fury evident in his tone and clenched fists.

Sherlock briefly explained the conversation on the roof and the threat. The D.I.'s anger didn't vanish, but his eyes did soften as Sherlock uncharacteristically rambled, and, when the detective was done, Lestrade sat in his chair and continued staring at the man in front of him.

"Do you know how much you hurt John?"

"I had no idea he would be this affected."

Lestrade blinked, clearly not expecting to be answered. "Mycroft?"

"He told me about the cutting and the smoking."

"Did he tell you how long it took me to get him to leave his flat? Did he tell you that he moved out of Baker Street and only just returned? Did he tell you that John hasn't dated anyone since? Did he tell you how John nearly died three times from malnutrition?"

"No." Sherlock whispered, his face growing whiter with each question.

"Did you really think that John wouldn't be hurt by you plummeting to your death RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM?"

"I THOUGHT THAT HE WOULD MOVE ON," Sherlock yelled. "I knew he would grieve, we were friends after all, but no one has ever cared for me beyond tolerance before. I thought that after a few weeks he would be able to return to normal."

"A few weeks? You really are an idiot."

Sherlock moved to the window, his back facing the D.I. as he processed the man's insult. There was something he was missing, something vital.

"Sentiment?" He muttered, his hands clenching on the windowsill.

"Yup. He was your only friend-" Sherlock turned and glared at Lestrade "-calm down, he told me everything. He was your only friend, and, you know what? You were his. Sure he has me and Mrs. Hudson, but our bond with him doesn't come close to yours."

"I wasn't his only friend." Sherlock stubbornly crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wasn't, not really. John was the social one; he was the one that could enter a room and, in five minutes, become friends with every inhabitant. Sherlock had always envied John's natural ability to ease everyone around him. Perhaps that had been what had drawn Sherlock to the doctor when they first met; perhaps Sherlock had seen that John was the one man that could tolerate him.

It wasn't exactly a mystery to Sherlock as to why he never had a flat mate for longer than two weeks before John.

"You were his only close friend. I don't know, maybe you two were more than that, but it wasn't a secret to anyone, not even Anderson, that there was _something _between you two."

Sherlock didn't say anything; he merely turned back to the window. For the first time in his life, he didn't trust his voice to not betray him.

"Does he know?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Shit Sherlock what the hell are you doing here then?" Lestrade fumed for a few moments, pacing back and forth before suddenly stopping. "You need my help to do that don't you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm assuming you already know about the case?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright, I think I have an idea."

* * *

Sherlock hid in the shadows of the abandoned flat, his heart racing and his breathing ragged.

He had been crouching in the corner for two hours, and his legs had fallen asleep though his mind was louder than ever.

What would John do when he saw the detective?

Would he-

The sound of footsteps assaulted Sherlock's ears as they grew louder and louder until suddenly the doorknob was turning and the door burst open, the doctor scanning the room and freezing when he saw Sherlock in the shadows.

"Show yourself; step into the light." John's voice, hard and apathetic, sliced through the silence.

"John." Sherlock replied, rising from his crouch, legs screaming in pain, and stepped hesitantly towards the stunned doctor.

"Sherlock?" John lowered his gun.

(tired, sore, lonely, smoker, still not eating properly (Sherlock would fix-

A loud thump shattered the detective's thought process as John collapsed to the ground. Sherlock ran to the doctor, cradling his head in his hands.

He felt something hot and sticky seep onto his fingertips.

The sight of John's blood made Sherlock dizzy, his ears buzzing and his mind entirely focused on his doctor.

Something tugged John out of his grasp, and Sherlock growled, ready to yank the doctor back until he saw that it was Lestrade that had taken the man from his grasp. Sherlock relinquished his hold somewhat, his hand still clutching John's as the three of them entered an ambulance.

As the paramedics bustled around him, Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed his thumb in circles on John's hand.

He ignored Lestrade's well-meaning attempts to comfort him.

Of course John was going to survive, he had to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sherlock's POV**

* * *

He was vaguely aware of his legs moving back and forth in a frantic sort of pacing. It wasn't until Lestrade gently grabbed his arm and asked him to take a seat that the detective noticed the other occupant's curious stares and annoyed glares and, with an exasperated huff, Sherlock sank into an uncomfortable chair across from the detective inspector.

"Everything will be fine Sherlock. John is a fighter."

"In his current state?"

"He has something to fight for now."

Sherlock wanted to scoff but no sound left his lips.

He wanted to refute Lestrade's statement, but the truth of his words dug up memories of the first time he met the doctor.

It had been the first time Sherlock hadn't told someone everything that he had been able to deduce about themselves, and he wasn't sure why, at the time, he had kept silent.

After all, the signs of attempted suicide were glaringly obvious, and they had been further confirmed when Lestrade and John had met in 221 B.

They hadn't said a word; they only shared a brief glance, but that simple interaction spoke volumes.

It was then that Sherlock had known who had persuaded John to not jump into the Thames.

He hadn't known how to properly express his gratitude, so he had helped the D.I. on every case he could, even the cold ones, for three weeks.

Sherlock was not unaware of the impact he had had on the doctor's life; he had, after all, allowed John to not only experience that was his life, but to also become the detective's only friend. However, it wasn't until Sherlock stood in the trees and stared at John mourning at his grave that the detective realized how much the doctor changed him.

In the beginning, everything had been about the work. It wasn't really a lie to say that he was married to it. Everything revolved around cases that drove away his boredom, if only for a limited amount of time.

But, as he got to know John, the importance of his work lessened and lessened until Sherlock was willing to completely ruin his reputation not only by proclaiming the doctor to be his hostage, but by also faking suicide, to ensure that John would be safe.

And that resulted in the doctor fading into a shell of his former self, wasting away.

John _had _to survive; he was a fighter.

Sherlock stifled a sigh and continued glaring at the ground.

Of course the doctor would be fine.

* * *

It had been three hours, and Sherlock reverted back to pacing.

Unfamiliar feelings of fear and worry had assaulted the detective, who was unaccustomed to such extreme emotions, and he drove away not only the other people in the room, but also three nurses that had tried to calm him down.

Lestrade had been relatively silent during this ordeal, only groaning aloud and covering his head in his hands after Sherlock bluntly deduced the second nurse's deteriorating marriage and the high likelihood of getting fired for her horrible bedside manner and thus reduced her to tears as she fled the room, but it was when the detective began muttering the statistics of John's survival that the normally patient D.I. reacted.

"Jesus Sherlock, that isn't appropriate nor will it solve anything! Can't you be positive for once?"

"Positive? You want me to be positive?" Sherlock sneered as he stalked over to Lestrade and loomed over the man. "I'm being _realistic, _isn't that better?"

"Better?" Lestrade sputtered. "Better? That man has suffered through so much, and-"

"There is no need to reiterate what he went through during my absence."

Lestrade rose from his chair, enraged, and the detective stepped back. "If you would _listen _to me for once in your life, you would know that I was going to say that it does not help the situation when you spout off pointless statistics! It's not realistic; it's robotic."

"There is nothing wrong with statistical analysis; you of all people should know this." Sherlock sneered.

"Well, since you are so fascinated with them, did you know that 97% of statistics are made up?"

Sherlock was about to snap back when someone cleared their throat, and the two men turned away from the other.

An older doctor (widowed, three grandchildren, two children, coffee drinker, neurosurgeon, four cats, avid reader).

"What is it? Is John okay? Is he dead?" Sherlock all but ran up to the man as the questions flew from his mouth, unbidden.

The doctor waited for silence and, when it finally arrived, he smiled. "John Watson is alive, though not entirely well. The surgery didn't go as planned, and we don't know whether or not he will wake up. It could take hours or weeks or months..." He trailed off awkwardly, and it was then that Sherlock realized he had been gripping the doctor's coat.

Sherlock backed away, releasing the doctor and absentmindedly watching as the man straightened his coat and looked uncomfortable. "Would you like to see him?"

Sherlock wanted to snap at the man; he wanted to sneer _obviously, _but nothing would come out of his mouth.

Lestrade walked up and patted the detective's back. "Yes we would. What room is he in?"

"215. Follow me."

He trailed behind Lestrade as he walked beside the doctor. Sherlock was torn between wanting to sprint to John's bedside and fleeing the hospital, John, and his feelings.

"What is his relationship to John?" The doctor whispered to Lestrade.

"They're-"

"We are life partners." Sherlock interrupted, and the two men stopped to look at him. The doctor looked as though he expected no less, but the look on the D.I.'s face was priceless; his mouth was open slightly in shock. "My _brother _can send you the papers."

The doctor nodded, and Lestrade flushed in embarrassment.

It was something that the D.I. and Mycroft thought it would be fun to do (though Sherlock had a feeling that his brother had done it in case a situation such as this would arise), so Mycroft made official documents saying that, in the eyes of the British Government (as a whole), Sherlock and John were married.

"That makes sense." The doctor commented, and they continued the rest of their walk in silence.

When they arrived at the room, the doctor opened the door, ushered everyone out, and allowed the men to see John privately.

Lestrade stood awkwardly for a few moments, staring at John, before sighing and reaching for the door. "He'll be fine Sherlock." He gave the detective a well-meaning smile before exiting the room.

Sherlock was frozen in his spot still, staring in disbelief at the man in front of him.

It was a little while before the detective could move, but, once he could, he all but ran to John's bedside. He pulled up a chair and rested his arms on the bed beside John's hand.

"They say that people in your state can hear what is going on around them," Sherlock murmured as his fingers brushed John's. "I've said it once, half jokingly, but it's true; I would be lost without my blogger."

Unable to say any more, Sherlock rested his forehead against the sheets and, damning the consequences, fully clasped John's hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**John's POV**

* * *

John didn't want to open his eyes; he was much more comfortable lying on the ground.

He faded in and out of a strange sort of stupor too many times to count. He wasn't sure if he had been exiting and entering consciousness for hours or minutes, but he realized that it didn't really matter.

John was just exhausted. He hadn't rested peacefully for what felt like forever.

Why hadn't he been this calm in ages?

Confused by this thought and no longer extremely tired, John opened his eyes.

He was surrounded by a grey sort of fog and completely alone. It was strangely still, save from the stirring of the air when John arose from the abnormally comfortable ground.

Where was he?

WHO was he?

John blinked, completely confused as he tried to remember anything about himself other than his name.

Nothing.

His mind was completely blank.

He knew about general things involving life, like random bits of information about London, the human anatomy, how to make tea, and, much to his confusion, how to use a gun. It seemed to clash with other information in his mind, yet it wasn't a foreign presence in his thoughts.

It was the sort of ignorance that only applied to anything about his past or who he was.

There were hints of course, like the things he knew how to do, but he didn't know what to make of the scant information.

All he knew was that he was restless; he didn't want to stand still in the middle of some bizarre place.

He began walking forward, wandering somewhat aimlessly throughout the strangely empty fog.

Where were the buildings? Where were the people? Where were the stores and restaurants and flats?

_Who would want me_ as_ a flat mate? _

John blinked and shook his head; where had that thought come from?

He continued walking, though his leg began throbbing in pain in such a way that wasn't entirely unfamiliar to him. Slightly perturbed though by no means daunted, John merely shrugged his shoulders when he began limping. It was a strange sight, he was sure, but, quite frankly, he didn't care.

The strange pain ought to have given him some sort of clue of his past, but John's mind was still blank.

_Damn my leg! _

Sighing, John walked forward.

His shoulder throbbed slightly, and he cursed.

Why was his mind still blank?

Torn between continuing to walk (which was, at this point, looking like a meaningless way to spend his time) and sitting down, John stopped walking and looked around. There was still a fog drifting around, though it had dissipated slightly since he woke; his surroundings hadn't changed in the slightest and it didn't look like they were going to anytime soon.

_Nothing ever happens to me. _

It didn't look like that statement was true anymore. He was restless and annoyed; desiring to leave this place and return to one that he couldn't remember much of.

When he did try to remember where he used to live, John was smote with a strange sort of grief.

Was he homeless?

A homeless person with injuries, knowledge of human anatomy, tea, and weaponry?

_That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. _

No; it wouldn't make sense if he was homeless. It just didn't feel right.

There was something missing from his life, that much was certain, but it didn't have anything to do with somewhere to live.

John wanted to scream with frustration. Why couldn't he remember anything?

"He'll be fine Sherlock." A thin barely-audible voice whispered. Something about it seemed familiar but, once again, John couldn't remember much about it.

When he heard 'Sherlock' though, his heart raced, his palms were sweating, and his eyes swam. Apprehension, confusion, grief, protectiveness and love were vying for his attention as John tried to process the name and why it seemed to mean so much to him.

Enlightenment never arrived, much to John's frustration.

"They say that people in your state can hear what is going on around them. I've said it once, half jokingly, but it's true; I would be lost without my blogger." A much clearer low baritone voice murmured, the silky tone caressing John's ears. Though it seemed to fill the fog, John was able to discern that the voice came from somewhere behind him.

Without a second thought, John turned around and walked in the direction of the voice.

He ignored the slight tingling warmth in his left hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sherlock's POV**

* * *

John's hand twitched, so miniscule a gesture that, had it been anyone but Sherlock Holmes holding the doctor's hand, they would've missed it.

Perhaps Sherlock was able to detect it because he was more observant than ordinary people, or perhaps Sherlock was just imagining the slight movement...

No. He wouldn't let sentiment derail his mind so drastically. It was obviously a real tremor.

But what was Sherlock supposed to do about it?

It wasn't of crucial importance, it wasn't like John had actually woken up, but did such an action deserve to be documented by the doctor?

Or would he just look at Sherlock with the same amount of pity as the detective gave potential clients when they had an outburst of sentiment (except he was much more open about his distaste for slobbery sobbing, enraged yelling, scant evidence of their claims, or, worst of all, a particularly mediocre case)?

_Please help me Mr. Holmes, I think that my husband/wife/partner is cheating on me. _

_Please help me Mr. Holmes, I think that my husband/wife/partner is hiding something from me. _

Who did they think he was, some sort of relationship counselor? Sure he could probably do a better job of it than most professional therapists, but that didn't make him one.

He couldn't even get his own relationships working right.

The detective shook his head, dispelling the discomforting thoughts. He stared at John's relaxed face, noting that, other than the slight twitch, there wasn't a difference in the doctor's condition.

He hadn't even realized that his hand still grasped John's but, as his gaze fell on them, the detective laced his fingers through his.

Sherlock could argue that he had stayed at his side because he thought that it would be unnecessary to report the ex-army doctor's miniscule change, but, in the deepest part of his mind palace, the detective knew that he really remained by John because he was afraid to leave the man again.

He was afraid that he would return to something much more permanently detrimental.

His heart rate skyrocketed, and Sherlock was thankful that it was John hooked up to the monitor and not himself.

Familiar footsteps assaulted his ears all too late, and Sherlock was able to identify them as Mycroft's seconds after the door opened. He refrained from greeting his brother with an insult, as was customary, because it would've been all the more obvious that he had been distracted.

By sentiment.

Good God what was wrong with the world.

"I see you're loosing your touch," Mycroft commented, his umbrella tapping the ground as he strolled to the other side of John. "You didn't even realize that it was me until I opened the door."

"It isn't my fault that your weight is substantially higher than I thought," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sniffed. "I see Doctor Watson's condition hasn't improved your attitude in the slightest."

"What do you want?"

His brother didn't answer. Sherlock was aware of Mycroft's stare, but his gaze refused to stray from John.

"Talking to him might help; then again, you just might bore him to death."

"Piss off Mycroft." Sherlock growled.

There was a moment of silence as the two men looked at the injured doctor.

"He will be alright," Mycroft murmured.

"Really? You think sentiment is going to help?"

"Merely an attempt to placate you, brother mine. Lord knows the last thing this hospital needs is an angst-ridden Sherlock Holmes on its hands."

"I am not _angst-ridden_."

"You are considerably more hostile than normal; you look like a kicked puppy, though it is harder to notice right now because you won't take your eyes off of John, and you are clutching his hand like it's a lifeline. At the moment, you are textbook angst. If you are going to stoop to their level, Sherlock, at least be unique about it."

"Please; like you would act any different if _Anthea_ were injured."

Mycroft paled slightly before straightening up and adjusting his tie. "Well, took you long enough."

"I noticed the ring during 'A Scandal in Belgravia.'"

"Using John's titles of your cases? You must be more emotional than I thought."

"Ghastly things, his titles, but they're somewhat helpful."

"Just like the man that writes them," Mycroft replied. Sherlock tensed, though not entirely because of the words spoken.

No; what bothered him the most was the fond tone that accompanied the halfhearted insult.

Was it possible that John Watson had wormed his way into the heart of not one, but two Holmes brothers?

It was definitely a strange thought, but, if anyone could do that, it would be John. Warm, tea-drinking, ugly-jumper wearing, _sentimental_ John Hamish Watson.

He had to wake up. Sherlock hadn't come all this way, hadn't destroyed every last trace of Moriarty and his web, to lose John to a head injury.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed, but eventually Mycroft left the room, and he was alone in silence once more.

His hand hadn't moved from its original position, entwined with John's, but he hadn't felt another tremor nor twitch. It was unresponsive, the injured doctor's skin warm and tan underneath Sherlock's pale fingers which moved of their own accord, his free hand resting on John's exposed arm, tracing random patterns and words. Sherlock wished that John was awake, but he also took greedy pleasure in being able to fully expose his emotions for the doctor.

It wasn't likely that John would want him around once he awoke and remembered the past few years where he thought that the detective had been dead.

Eventually, Sherlock grew sick of the silence, so he began talking.

He spoke of the first case they ever solved together, the one with the murderous cabbie, and he didn't leave a single detail out.

While Sherlock always criticized John for romanticing their cases, the detective didn't just stick to the facts either. His retelling of the story was a bizarre yet unequal mixture of extreme attention to the more factual side of the reports with bits of short yet massive amounts of sentiment.

He admitted his strange rush of emotions towards the army doctor when he found out about who shot the cabbie. Sherlock confessed that he was hurt when he presented John to Sebastian as his friend, only to have John interrupt with 'colleague.' He spoke of the mind-numbing panic that had gripped his whole body when he rushed back into their flat, only to find the windows marked with the yellow paint in what he knew now to mean 'dead man.' He confessed to being filled with momentary doubt when John walked out of one of the stalls at the pool, only to find the bomb strapped to his chest. Sherlock had been both relieved and absolutely terrified; relieved that John wasn't the psychotic criminal behind numerous unnecessary deaths, and terror that John's life was at stake.

In short, Sherlock spoke until his voice gave out. He only reached the part when Moriarty decided to let them live at the pool, but he had said plenty as it was.

During the detective's soliloquy, he went from sitting stiffly in his chair, hands the only physical contact between him and John, to slowly sinking until he was fast asleep, his head resting beside the doctor's leg, fingers still entwined.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock's POV**

* * *

A week passed, and John's condition remained the same. There weren't any positive or negative changes, and that was almost worse for Sherlock.

It wasn't that he couldn't be patient; while Mycroft was in possession of larger quantities of this, the detective could be very patient when it was necessary.

The only drawback was, of course, the addition of sentiment. Sherlock could wait for long periods of time when necessary, but it was accomplished mainly because of his apathy. He could distance himself from the situation enough that impatience was nonexistent, even if the situation was, to any other mortal, impossible to be patient. Of course, if the detective was on an exhilarating case, this skill was often lacking, but it was still present nonetheless.

With John, Sherlock's patience suddenly vanished, extinguished by the overwhelming worry and fear that gripped his mind.

It didn't help that his condition was monotonous, uneventful, and completely out of his control. No one knew when (not if; John _would _awaken) the army doctor would stir, so the detective never left. He didn't want to miss it.

After three days passed of Sherlock sitting by John's bedside, clutching the limp hand, and only leaving to use the loo, Lestrade visited him and forced the enraged detective to go home and clean up; he could return to John after he showered and ate something.

The D.I. had never seen Sherlock so furious in all of their years together.

Sherlock lashed out, spewing insults, slurs, and expletives. It had been the first time that he had ever heard the detective use what he called "vulgar language for idiots who didn't know a better way to express themselves," but Lestrade hadn't been very surprised. He knew that John had a vast array of curse words that he was sure the detective had heard.

Lestrade liked to think that the look on Sherlock's face was begrudging admiration that the D.I. had stood his ground despite the detective ranting and yelling until his voice was reduced to a harsh, painful whisper, but most likely all Sherlock meant when he finally stopped talking and fixed Lestrade with a searching stare was annoyance and, quite possibly, merely a glance that was supposed to enlighten him with the knowledge of how to make Lestrade back down.

The D.I. spoke only when the detective finally stopped his childish rant, and he hinted at resorting to calling his brother should Sherlock continue his temper tantrum.

Strangely enough, it was Sherlock who relented. He made quite a show about his anger at the situation though; Sherlock huffed and practically stomped to the other side of the room, shoved his arms into his coat, yanked his scarf around his neck, and exited the room, acknowledging Lestrade's presence only by slamming his shoulder into the D.I. as he sauntered away.

Sherlock was aware that he was being immature, but he didn't care. It didn't matter what Lestrade thought of him; the only thing that mattered to Sherlock was John's condition.

What if something happened while he was gone?

He paused in the lobby, briefly considering dashing back to John's bedside, but he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the video cameras pointed at him, and he sighed.

There had been far too much interaction with his older brother in the past few days, and he didn't want to have yet another encounter. Suppressing a growl, Sherlock calmly walked out of the building and hailed a cab.

The trip to Baker Street took twenty minutes, and every second was excruciating. The shower took a whopping two minutes, drying off and getting ready taking three minutes, but what held him up was Mrs. Hudson.

He had escaped her well-meaning but irritating nonetheless clutches entering the flat, but, as he descended the stairs as quietly and quickly as possible, she accosted him with food, questions, and motherly attempts to comfort him. The detective wanted more than anything to ditch the kindhearted woman in favor of his kindhearted companion, but exhaustion prevented him from leaving. The smell of food sent his stomach into a tizzy; as soon as the heavenly scent assaulted his nose, Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to leave without indulging in the food meant for him and John.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her, refused to accept that John wouldn't wake up.

The detective ate quickly yet heartily, the first meal he had had in a week and the first succulent meal he had had in three years.

He had missed her cooking, though he would never admit it.

He also missed her angry stare as she slammed a cup of coffee, black two sugars, down next to his food.

Biting back a curse, Sherlock remembered that she hadn't known his death was a fake. In between bites, he explained the situation to her. She was livid, though as she listened to him, her anger visibly ebbed.

"You didn't scream when you saw me," Sherlock commented when he was finished, both with the meal and his tale.

"I always knew something wasn't quite right; you never struck me as the sort to commit suicide, least of all because of what other people thought of you. Besides, if anyone would fake their death, it would be you," She replied, patting his arm. "Though I wish you had let us know what was going on, I understand."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond, so he hesitantly lifted his hand and touched her hand that now rested on his arm.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Don't worry; John will understand. He'll probably be angry, but you two will be okay in the end."

The detective, though worried that her attempts at comforting would prove to be falsehoods, graced her with a small smile, which she returned before releasing her hand from his arm.

"Go on then, you need to see him when he wakes!" She exclaimed, shooing Sherlock away.

He left the flat, a bemused smile still somewhat gracing his face that vanished when he thought of John.

The days after this were much smoother for everyone involved. Sherlock was, despite hospital rules forbidding it, allowed to stay the night with the injured army doctor, but the conditions changed slightly after that day. From then on, for however long John was in the hospital, Sherlock was only permitted to be with John at any time throughout the day if and only if he took time daily to return to Baker Street to get cleaned up and fed. The detective grudgingly agreed, though he would never admit that he was suddenly looking forward to the time away from John, if only because it granted him a reprieve from his worrying emotions.

Hope was a foolish thing that served to destroy your sanity by posing as a placate for emotions. Hope acted like a soothing agent and, while that wasn't a complete lie, it's only a short term effect. The long term effect was something entirely different; by presenting sentiment with something it wanted but knows doesn't exist, hope served to rile rather than reconcile. Hope convinced the heart that what it desires most will occur, and it tricked the mind into distinguishing that which is impossible to be possible and vise versa. In short, Sherlock Holmes was fully aware of the dangers of hope.

It was with a heavy heart that the detective admitted to himself that he had fallen prey to hope's seductive grasp. He had always abhorred the sentiment, viewing it as the worst of them all as he had been an eyewitness to its devastating effects all throughout his life, both in others and, in his younger years, himself.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to believe that the strange emotion gripping him was the one he loathed the most, but, at the end of that week, the symptoms were glaringly obvious, so he grudgingly admitted, to himself, that he had fallen prey to hope.

His hand was still clutching John's as it seemed to always do when he was around his wounded friend, but he had stopped caring about the sentimental act long ago.

It was the one good thing Sherlock was able to glean from the situation; he was allowed to cross lines that were once barbed fences. Of course, he often was fooled (by that damned hope) that John's hand twitched in his, but the hurt that diffused through him when he realized that his mind was playing tricks on him was worth Sherlock being allowed to touch his friend.

Another false twitch fluttered against Sherlock's hand, and he squeezed John's fingers in frustration.

"Would you just stop?" He chastised aloud, more to himself than his friend.

The hand beneath his squeezed in return, gripping Sherlock so tightly that, even if he had wanted to remove his hand, he would've been unable to do so.


	6. Chapter 6

**John's POV**

* * *

Much to his confusion, the tingling in John's hand did not go away; rather, it stayed with an almost obstinate resolution. Whether that was directed to John or not remained a mystery.

Although time was nonexistent in the strange fog, John was amazed at how long the tingling presence lingered with him. It could've been minutes or hours since it first began, but John unconsciously began to depend on it.

It was the only thing that remained constant.

Not long after his hand began to tingle, the melodious voice rang out into the void once more, though this time it was for a longer amount of time.

Whatever fondness that had been present the first time John heard it, Sherlock apparently, was completely out shadowed by the stranger's new soliloquy.

John was filled with a strange warmth as the voice began to tell him stories, highly factual but interesting nonetheless, of a breathtakingly exciting life. The voice told of a sociopathic consulting detective ("The only one in the world," the voice commented, a hint of pride laced through the words that tugged John's lips into a fond smile) and his companion, though he remained nameless.

Whether it was the strange understanding John possessed of the voice or the mysterious speaker was easier to read than it presumed, John did not miss the signs of a strong bond between the detective and his companion. While the voice did not embellish the crimes they solved, it did seem to exaggerate the apathy it claimed to be in possession of.

The description of his companion alone was overflowing with sentiment, despite the voice's ferverent claims that it was not in possession of such a noxious thing; they were blunt adjectives, commonplace, ones you would use to describe someone that you saw a few times at your favorite store or at work, but the tone with which he spoke betrayed the clipped description.

With this tone, John felt a tugging of disbelief. Did it really believe itself to be sociopathic when a blind man could see the affection it felt towards its companion?

It broke off the story right at an exciting part; the two were at a pool in the middle of a confrontation with a man that seemed to be the detective's evil counterpart. There was silence for a little while before the voice commenced.

"Its been a day," John suppressed a groan of relief; he finally was given some semblance of time. "And nothing has changed. I wasn't expecting the sentimental suggestions of Gavin to be medically sound, of course, but you, a creature of sentiment, ought to have responded more positively." There was a pause, and John was afraid that the voice would leave, that it would stop, but it resumed. "The man... My friend... The army doctor... That was you."

A strange wave of emotions spread through John like wildfire. Was he really the man this extraordinary voice held in such high esteem? Why was he tearing up at the completely out of character confession? Why did he want to punch and hug the voice at the same time?

The silence returned, though it was not as discomforting as he expected it to be.

Little bits and pieces of information in his head began to come together, forming memories and personality that he didn't know he had been in possession of.

It was as though his mind had been a mountain of scattered, disconnected puzzle pieces and the voice was the hands of a tentative but earnest child seeking to rebuild something it didn't quite comprehend.

The silence was interrupted once more, though the voice was distorted, angrily spewing insults at something John couldn't see or hear. The voice died down eventually and another, much calmer and sympathetic voice coaxed his detective with a mention of a brother. A fat man immediately came to mind, but John brushed the image aside. It didn't feel right, though it did bring a chuckle in its wake.

The tingling in his hand was gone, though only for a little while, and when it returned, John sighed.

Though the silence remained, every once in a while, the tingling would fade for a short but horrible time, and John was able to make the connection that the tingling was produced by the voice. It was the only connection John had now that the speaking had ceased and he didn't know where to go. The voice had been leading him somewhere, somewhere where the fog began to lift slightly and the light was a bit brighter, but, now that it was gone, John didn't move, afraid to be lost in the haze once more.

He hated wandering aimlessly, but he grew to loathe the silence more. He flexed his tingling fingers slightly, succumbing to the urge to move. While it wasn't enough, it was something, and the voice hadn't been helping much lately.

"Would you just stop?" The voice snapped warily, the tingling growing a tad bit stronger. John plodded ahead until it was gone and silence wrapped around him once more, its suffocating grip strangling John like a python.

The tingling was still present, thrumming silently at his side.

Maybe he could communicate with the voice through the tingling.

Something (the voice, he hoped) squeezed John's hand, and he returned the favor.

_More, _John tried to tell the voice.

_Tell me more. _


End file.
